A man who apparently required my warehouse beneath his opportunity.
I leaned back.
Then, for reasons I still cannot explain, I thought about the green box sitting on the restaurant table.
The Hamilton.
Months of looking.
I laughed once.
A single sound in the empty study.
It sounded wrong.
I stopped.
The laptop on my desk was still signed into an email account used for shared business correspondence. Pam Whitfield, the accountant who handled both my business books and parts of Laurel Row's accounting, copied me on significant matters.
For the first several years, I read everything.
Then Laura's company became successful.
I stopped.
Trust turns attention into something that feels unnecessary.
At 11:40, a new email appeared.
PAM WHITFIELD.
Subject: Quick Question.
The message contained one sentence.
Greg, are you still authorizing the collateral arrangement for Laura's expansion?
Still.
That word changed the room.
Someone believed I had already said yes.
I typed:
No. Please do not proceed with anything involving my property or any new guarantee in my name until I have spoken with counsel. I will call you Monday.
I reread it.
Deleted the phrase “or Laura.”
Added nothing angry.
Sent it.
Pam replied in under a minute.
Understood. Thank you, Greg.
Four words.
But I could feel relief inside them.
I wondered how long she had been uncomfortable.
My phone buzzed shortly after midnight.
Laura.
You embarrassed me tonight.
Nothing about the ring.
Nothing about whether I had made it home.
Nothing about the gift.
I stared at the message.
Then answered:
I didn't embarrass you, Laura. You did that yourself.
I turned the phone off.
At around 1:30, I heard the garage door.